


Dot, Dot, Dot, Dot, Dot

by MaxWrite



Series: Hockey Night in Canada and Everything After [2]
Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Mission: Impossible (Movies) RPF, Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol RPF, Mission: Impossible RPF
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, M/M, RPF, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxWrite/pseuds/MaxWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their one night together, Tom can't stop thinking about Simon. And Tom's never been one to not go after exactly what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dot, Dot, Dot, Dot, Dot

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Holy Shit, it's Tom Cruise](http://archiveofourown.org/works/316482). It's a bit more serious and is from Tom's PoV. It's also kind of a fill for [this prompt](http://ghotocol-kink.livejournal.com/1494.html?thread=473558#t473558).
> 
> For this fic, Simon's wife, Maureen, has been relegated to girlfriend, while Katie Holmes has been nixed altogether. There's a nanny for Tom's daughter, and I thought about naming her Katie, but that felt a bit odd and uncomfortable to me. I have no desire to insult these men's wives. I have no animosity towards them, as that would be childish and ridiculous. Also, Simon's daughter has been nixed as well, and Suri is the only one of Tom's kids that's mentioned, so I guess we can say the others don't exist either. Incidentally, I refrain from using Suri's name in the fic at all. It just feels odd to me to put her name in something like this. I suppose I could have changed her name, but we all know who I'm talking about. Anyway, onward.

Tom likes Simon. Very, very much.

He's professional, dedicated and eager. He is also laid back and easy to talk to. Tom only caught glimpses of his true personality on M:I 3, as they hadn't gotten to spend much time together back then; Simon's part only took a couple of days to shoot. Now, though, Tom finds himself drawn to the Brit. How much of that is the innate trust that Tom feels for Simon, and how much is plain old physical attraction, Tom isn't sure. Simon is cute, no denying that. He looks damn good as a blond and, despite what Simon might think, he pulls off clean-shaven as well as he does the beard. He's also incredibly fit now, and Tom is pleased to discover that Simon has little trouble keeping up with him when they run together on set. Tom now has a running buddy. A running buddy who looks rather cute in a pair of shorts.

As for the innate trust, that's frightening in and of itself. Tom doesn't trust easily, and for good reason. He has learned to keep even mundane bits of his personality closely guarded. But Simon's nonjudgmental nature pulls Tom in. Minor things that Tom has grown wary of sharing with others slide off Simon's back like water. Tom quickly learns that Simon isn't interested in judging, as long as he gets the same respect in return.

Unfortunately, all of this only helps to make Simon incredibly attractive and merely underscores how much Tom likes him. The clincher is the recurring dreams. One takes place in a candlelit room in a gym. The room is a cross between one in which you would find workout equipment and one in which you would find a pool. There are two treadmills – him on one, Simon on the other – and a swimming pool at the room's center. It is surprisingly romantic. There are bottles of Alaska's finest spring water. Death Cab for Cutie plays softly in the background. Simon likes Death Cab, and it's only because of him that Tom does too. The room's wall are all clear glass, but Tom can see nothing outside except what looks like fog. Hundreds of candlelight reflections flicker on the glass.

There is a lot of sweating and panting, but never any actual sex. Well, not literally; the room is equipped with a lone barbell which is directly in Tom's line of sight, and it has only one weight plate on it which continually slides on and off the barbell's end, over and over again. Doesn't take a genius to work that one out.

The other dream that Tom associates with Simon has Tom standing on a ledge. He can't see what the ledge is attached to, if it's a building or a cliff or something else entirely, but he is up there to film some kind of stunt, which he knows because he is harnessed. Although strangely, he can't see any other cast or crew. In fact, he can't see anything but blue sky all around him, above and below. He wants to jump, and as soon as he realizes this, the harness is gone. He's completely untethered. He still wants to jump, and he knows instinctively that jumping won't send him hurtling to his death. He might fly. He might fall forever. Either would be preferably to standing still. He's got the same butterflies in his stomach that he gets when he's about to hurl himself off a building in real life, the same tingling all over, the same sensation that his stomach is trying to crawl up into his throat. And he loves it.

But always, just before he's about to jump, he wakes up or the scene changes. He has plenty of dreams in which he actually performs death-defying feats, usually after a day of practicing for or shooting said feats, but none of them are like this one. None of them are quite as clear and vivid as this one. Or as confusing; there is only empty sky and calm and feelings Tom associates with Simon. Tom likes this dream. He just wishes it would let him jump.

So, yes, Tom likes Simon. There aren't many people with whom Tom feels he can be himself, and when he finds one, he isn't quick to let go.

When he finds one he's also attracted to, things can get complicated.

The problem here is that Simon is a man. Tom Cruise isn't supposed to be attracted to men. His publicist is going to murder him when she finds out. Tom can already hear himself saying to her, "The heart wants what it wants, Grace."

"Oh? And what does your bank account want? Does your phone want to ring? Do you want to keep working?" is what she'll reply.

Well, Tom has no doubt that if word gets out that he's slept with Simon, his phone will indeed be ringing, but not for the right reasons.

The issue of who the world thinks Tom is, is one thing. There is also the issue of who Simon thinks Tom is. Tom seems to bring out Simon's nerves an awful lot and he wonders what he does that's so impressive it makes Simon nervous. Tom is just a guy, and Simon has seen that, appreciates it, but there are still times when Simon will look at him and Tom can see the wonder in his eyes, like he's a starstruck fan meeting Tom at a premiere.

Maybe Tom shouldn't smile so much. That seems to set Simon off more often than not. There's something about his hands too. Tom often finds Simon watching them when Tom gesticulates.

Well, Tom may never know exactly what it is that does it. He's just grateful that Simon can be halfway normal around him, that he can treat Tom like a regular person much of the time. Those are the best times, when they're just hanging out and Simon relaxes. He's kind of amazing when he's just himself. Somehow the simple, often clunky English language becomes something almost poetic on his tongue. He is self-deprecating, wry and a little snarky. And terribly cute. There's an asymmetry to his mouth that's almost graceful when he smiles. Tom often finds himself staring and thinking about slipping his tongue between those lips. More than once, he's had to catch himself, tear his eyes away before Simon notices his staring.

Not that Simon's nerves aren't adorable too. Truth be told, that hockey game outing wasn't supposed to have been a date at all. Tom would never have been that presumptuous. He is aware that the Tom Cruise persona is probably _expected_ to be that presumptuous, and there's still a part of Simon that expects it too. Tom is just grateful that Simon wasn't offended.

Tom had honestly just wanted to hang out that night. But then Simon had laughed his infectious laugh and his smile was so pretty and he'd been looking so damn cute the whole night anyway, in his army cap and his hipster glasses. And then his nerves had hit. He'd looked at Tom and something about Tom in that moment had triggered him and he'd become shy and fidgety and so fucking sweet. The fact was, Tom had been fighting the urge to touch him since they'd met up that day. His hand had been destined for Simon's thigh. The fact that it took it as long as it had to actually get there was something of a miracle.

Since that night, they'd been a bit distant. Simon seemed to have pulled back somewhat. Understandable. Neither one of them was supposed to be anything resembling gay (well, Simon has a bit of leeway with his open-mindedness and playful flirting, but Tom certainly does not) and Tom had taken a huge risk that night, leaning in and kissing Simon's neck like that right there in front of an arena full of people, cameras and all. It was downright stupid on his part. Simon was right to pull away.

The problem with Tom is that once the flood gates are open, it takes nothing short of clear and direct rejection to stop the deluge. His feelings are out now. He can't push them back in. And they are ill-advised, impractical, dangerous.

Of course, Tom's never been one to not do something just because it's dangerous.

It is the day after Simon's 41st birthday, and Tom isn't about to _not_ give the man a present. The fact that it's a fairly expensive present, and something that Simon doesn't even know that Tom knows he really wants – well, Simon should expect no less from Tom at this point. Tom might not be much like the expected Tom Cruise persona, but he's anything but ordinary. When you're Tom Cruise, you can't really do gift certificates. And muffin baskets are for acquaintances, not friends.

So, the very specific brand of snowboard that Simon's been lusting after lies in wait in Simon's trailer, leaned up against the sofa opposite the door, so that when he walks in, the gleam on its shiny surface will be the first thing he sees. That and the giant red bow stuck to it.

It's midday and Simon hasn't been needed on set yet, but he's somewhere close by, in costume, waiting. Tom is lowered to the floor of the sound stage that has been dressed up to look like a car park, and is helped out of his harness. He is then sent away to relax for a while. It's been a long morning, but relaxing is the last thing on his mind. He wants to go find Simon, see what he thinks of his gift, see the way his eyes light up like an excited little boy's when he talks about it.

Tom goes to his own trailer, deciding that going to find the guy himself would be too forward. He decides to wait.

He's been in his trailer mere minutes, has only had time to take off his suit jacket and loosen his tie, when the knock comes. When he answers his door, he finds Simon standing outside on the steps. He is in one of Benji's outfits – plaid shirt and a red tie – but he hasn't put his contacts in yet, so he's still wearing his hipster glasses. He looks up at Tom when the door opens and smiles awkwardly.

"It's too much, isn't it?" Tom begins before Simon says a word.

Simon smiles more broadly and naturally at that. This is the Simon Tom loves to see. Just seeing that charming smile makes Tom a bit tingly all over.

"No. God, no," Simon laughs. "It's perfect. It's brilliant. How did you even know? I'm sure I didn't tell you."

"I have my sources," Tom replies with a shrug and a smile. He steps aside and gestures for Simon to come in. Simon steps up into the trailer and Tom shuts the door.

Simon looks genuinely touched as he says, "Thank you. I… I dunno what to say."

"You're happy. That's enough. That's all I wanted."

Simon glances down, shuffles his feet. "Look, um… I know I've been a bit distant –"

"It's not a big deal," Tom immediately stops him. "You're right to pull away. What happened was reckless. Dangerous. We're lucky no one found out."

"Yeah." Simon looks up again, now looking worried. "You know about Maureen, don't you?"

Simon's girlfriend. Tom's heart sinks a little at the mention of her. "I know. I shouldn't have pursued you. It was wrong of me and I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. There were two people there that night. I'm as much to blame. Although, granted, I never said things were serious between me and her," Simon admits rather sheepishly.

"Never said they weren't," Tom points out. "And it doesn't matter. You're with someone, I should've kept my hands to myself."

Simon shrugs. "You want something, you go for it. That's who you are. Hell, that's who I am too, can't really blame you for it. I could've said no. Fact is… I didn't want to."

Tom wants to cling to those last words and is actually quiet for a moment as he repeats them in his head, but finally he says, "I pushed. I was the pursuer. If I hadn't…" He stops himself, smiles sadly. "We're getting stuck in a self-blame loop."

Simon chuckles. "Oh god, a self-blame loop. You're the nicest guy in the world and I'm British. We could be here all day."

Tom laughs. It's a sad laugh, but a genuine one. It's that wit of Simon's, it only makes him more attractive.

Tom holds out his hand. "I'm glad we're friends," he says, and he means it, despite what else he might be feeling.

Simon looks a little relieved as he smiles, nods and shakes Tom's hand. But it's a resigned sort of relief, and Tom is sure it isn't just wishful thinking that makes him see it that way, either. He and Simon are on the same page; this is the way it has to be and neither of them is happy about it.

"We'll always have hockey night in Canada," Simon says.

Tom chuckles politely and tries not to think about that night.

Simon is sensible. He knows that getting involved with Tom will simply open up a whole can of worms that neither of them wants to deal with. Tom knows it too. It's time he accepted it.

* * *

Except that he can't.

He's not immediately aware that he can't, of course. At first he convinces himself that his continued over-involvement in Simon's life is simply normal, close-friend behavior. Lots of guys text each other fifty times a day for no reason. Sometimes even when they're in the same room together.

Simon doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems to enjoy it as much as Tom does. Somewhere in the back of Tom's mind he knows this is dangerous, that his feelings are merely being nurtured, rather than pushed aside. But he can't stop.

He and Simon settle back into their routine. They workout together. They often have dinner together. Sometimes Tom's daughter even joins them. The fact that Simon is an absolute natural with the five-year-old is the most wonderful discovery and Tom is ear-to-ear grins whenever the two of them are together and Simon is making her giggle. Of course, it also scares Tom half to death. At this point, Simon is falling into "perfect mate" territory. This is bad. Tom should probably stop bringing his daughter around Simon altogether. Watching Simon interact with her is the sweetest and most painful thing Tom's ever seen.

So naturally, he has his little girl make Simon a lasagna and bring it to him on set.

Tom sneaks up to Simon's trailer. Simon has just gone inside, no doubt wanting to sit down for a few minutes after hours on set. Tom would like that himself, but he wants to see how his surprise goes over.

He doesn't bother knocking. He opens the door just a crack and peers inside. Only Laurie – the bird-like, auburn-haired, thirty-something nanny who cares for his daughter when he's working – notices Tom's appearance. Tom gives her the "shhh" signal and she keeps her cool with just a hint of a glimmer in her eyes.

Simon has dropped to one knee to take the personal-size lasagna, in the pretty, little-girl-sized ceramic casserole dish, from the dark-haired little girl. "You made this?" he asks. His voice sounds perfectly normal, like he's speaking to an adult, which Tom appreciates; his daughter has always seemed a bit of an old soul.

"Yes," she replies proudly, straight-backed, chin up.

"All by yourself?"

"Well… Laurie helped."

"I handled the sharp things," Laurie clarifies. "And I made sure the mess didn't get out of control. But yup, she did most of it herself."

Simon gives the little girl a mock-skeptical look as he pulls the lid off the dish. "Are you absolutely sure your dad didn't help you?"

She nods emphatically, then raises her right hand. "I swear. He's _useless_ in the kitchen."

Laurie laughs, her jaw dropping, eyebrows raising. "I have no idea where she got that from."

The five-year-old cranes her neck to look up at Laurie. "You said it. You say it all the time."

Tom tries not to laugh and alert them to his presence.

Simon takes a moment and gives the dish a sniff. He nods. "Okay. Yup, yeah. I see what you mean now. Your dad couldn't have helped you with this, because it smells absolutely delicious."

Tom's daughter giggles, her eyes twinkling the way they always do when Simon makes her laugh. Tom picks this moment to make his presence known to all. "I beg your pardon?" he says as he steps inside and approaches the group.

Simon raises up to his full height, smiling at Tom and doing an excellent job hiding his surprise at Tom's sudden appearance. "Well, come on, let's be honest," he says. "No way you're as good a cook as she is. Look at this thing. This ain't no paint-by-numbers dish, this requires real skill."

Tom sighs, pretending to give in. "Okay, you got me. I can barely slap a sandwich together." He looks down at his daughter. "It was all her. She wanted to do something nice for you."

Simon drops down again and says to the little girl, "Thank you so much. I'm going to enjoy this."

She looks proud again and she is also blushing as she replies, "You're welcome, Simon."

"Can you stay, have some with me?"

"No, that's for you," Laurie says. "Besides, we want to say hello to everyone before we leave and we haven't got much time. We should get going."

Tom takes a moment to hug his daughter goodbye and tell her a lot of fatherly things, that she should be good for Laurie and that he'll be home before she knows it. Then she and Laurie leave, and Tom and Simon are alone.

"What's this about, really?" Simon asks, holding up the lasagna and canting his head at Tom.

He doesn't seem upset. In fact, he has a faint smile on his face, the kind of knowing smile that says Tom is busted. Tom plays dumb anyway. "What? She likes you. She wanted to make you something."

"You didn't have anything to do with this?"

"Me? No, I'm useless in the kitchen, remember?"

"So, she came up with this on her own?"

"Yes, she did."

"I see. So, where are Jeremy's and Paula's tiny lasagnas, then?"

"She didn't make them any. It's you she knows, Simon, it's you who's spent time with her, you who plays with her."

Simon sighs. "Tom –"

"I know what you're thinking. Don't read too much into this, okay? Sometimes a lasagna is just a lasagna."

"Yeah, and sometimes a cigar is just a big ol' penis metaphor," Simon retorts.

Tom smirks. "You think this lasagna is a metaphor for my penis?"

"No, I think it's metaphor for, 'Hey, would you mind terribly if I stripped you naked, slathered you in tomato sauce and ate mushrooms off your belly?'"

"Somehow I doubt that's what she was trying to say."

Simon cocks his head again, giving Tom an exasperated look.

"It's just a kind gesture," Tom says. "Purely platonic. That's all. No pressure. No slathering, no eating of anything off anyone. Just lunch."

Simon continues to look skeptical for a moment before he finally relaxes and nods. "Okay. Thank you. Sorry for the third degree."

"No problem."

"You wanna… hang out? Have some with me?"

Tom whistles, pretending to be uncertain. "Sharing a lasagna with a friend? Might wanna slow down. Not sure I'm ready for all that."

"Oh, shut up," Simon laughs and smacks Tom's arm. He is relaxed again. He smiles easily. He's lovely. Watching him unleashes a horde of butterflies inside Tom's belly even as his heart breaks a little. He should go.

He stays.

* * *

A few weeks later, they get some time off. Simon goes home to England. Tom goes home to L.A.

There's definitely a certain comfort in the routine of Tom's home life that he's missed; the smells of his own home, even the way footsteps sound on his own floors, or the way his daughter's laughter echoes through certain rooms. There are few places where he feels truly comfortable, where he can just _be_. This is one of them.

But there's a reason a man like Tom becomes an action star, and it is that reason that has him fidgety and anxious during lulls in the day. He misses it. He misses acting. His misses his friends on set. Lord help him, he even misses that god awful, ball-crushing harness.

He awakens the day after his arrival back at home. He can hear cartoons on the too-loud TV downstairs and he is surrounded by the scent of his own room, the feel of his own sheets. He awakens naturally, not to the blare of an alarm, and with actual sunlight on his face, not the red glow of a digital clock in the darkness of the wee hours of the morning. Laurie's made coffee. He can smell it. This is perfect. It _should_ be perfect.

But he won't be heading off to the set today. He won't be jumping off of anything higher than a jungle gym, and the most intense conversations he'll have will probably involve his agent. He won't have the luxury of doing take after take of those to get them exactly right, either. Life is imperfect. No second takes.

And yes, he misses Simon. Thank god for texting. In fact, when he picks up his phone on that first morning, he's already got five texts from Simon. He rolls onto his back, grinning like an idiot, and reads:

>   
> 
> 
> _"Everything's weird. Tried to drive to set this morning. Ended up in Trafalgar Square. What's happening???"_  
> 

The other four are just as pithy. Tom aches a little and realizes just how big his bed is for one person.

He replies:

>   
> 
> 
> _"Morning, gorgeous."_  
> 

He checks his e-mail, voice mail and various other things. He then takes the phone off "silent", sits up, yawns, stretches. A second later, he gets another text.

>   
> 
> 
> _"There you are. Was wondering if maybe your plane got swallowed up by a wormhole or something."_  
> 

Tom replies:

>   
>  _"Gimme a break. I'm 8 hours behind you. Just waking up."_  
> 

He sends it, then thinks of something else he should have said, opens another text window and types:

>   
>  _"But now you mention it, there was a slight delay. Something on the plane's wing, apparently…"_  
> 

Thirty seconds later, Simon replies:

>   
>  _"Holy Shatner, I think I love you."_  
> 

It's an off-hand comment, it means nothing. This is what Tom immediately tells himself, trying to calm the butterflies that awaken in his stomach.

* * *

A high-profile friend has invited Tom and his daughter to dinner. So, dressed casually in jeans and a lightweight sweater, he escorts his much more fashionable five-year-old to the party where conversation inevitably turns to his latest project, his stunts, his costars. He tries not to sound too eager when discussing Simon. He deliberately turns the conversation to Paula, to Jeremy, to Brad Bird, to a grip who was particularly funny one day, anyone else, because otherwise he's afraid his eyes will light up too much, that he'll become too enthusiastic.

But Simon has fans here amongst Tom's acquaintances and people he's just meeting, fans of things dating back as far as Simon's run on some obscure British sketch comedy back in the nineties. Tom is drawn to one individual in particular, as she seems a bit of an Anglophile and a huge fan of Simon's. She is short, squat, olive-skinned, dressed in a dark gray sweater dress, black tights and boots, and her thick, dark hair hangs loose and sleek with her bangs swooping elegantly to one side. She shows him her favorite comedy sketch featuring Simon, plays the video on her phone. It's from the late nineties and Simon is in his late twenties. The perfect comic timing that he's been honing all his life is evident.

Then she shows him a picture from around the same time. It isn't a personal picture, but one anyone might find online. Simon's hair is already receding, but it's still dyed blond, with roots showing. His glasses are not unlike the ones he wears now, though more rectangular than square. He's wearing an adorable pout. He's nearly thirty in this shot, a grown man, but he looks like a fresh-faced kid. Tom thinks it's cute when his Simon-fan companion refers to the photo as "baby Simon".

"Would you mind sending me a copy?" Tom asks. He plays it cool. "I wanna show it to him when I get back to work. Embarrass him a little."

After taking the time to get to know the woman a little, he eventually, reluctantly, lets her go, not wanting to monopolize her time. And he mingles. While his daughter is happily playing with the host's children out in the backyard amongst the hundreds of glittering fairy lights that adorn the space, Tom is inside being his usual, charming self. He looks people in the eye when he speaks to them, makes them feel that they are more than just a passing conversation in a room full of important people. It doesn't matter how big or small the name is; Tom makes the same effort with everyone. Or appears to. The fact is, he has been on autopilot much of the night. He feels removed, distant. It's as if he's being pulled elsewhere. Luckily, he's good at talking to people and no one notices how far away he is in his head.

He finally breaks away, wanders out to the back, onto the deck. The children are frolicking in the spacious garden in their perfect little outfits, amongst neatly trimmed little trees. With the fairy lights, the scene looks like something out of a movie in which children discover some magical place hidden in the otherwise mundane shrubbery of their backyard. Tom smiles at that thought as he automatically pulls his phone from his pocket and opens a text window to share the thought with Simon.

>   
>  _"Dinner party. Lovely but boring. Die a little inside every time someone mentions Snooki. The children may or may not have discovered Narnia in the backyard. Wish you were here."_  
> 

And he waits, though he doesn't expect a response. It's nearly five a.m. where Simon is, surely Simon's phone is turned off and he's fast asleep. Then again, the time difference between work and home is sure to be messing with him. He may very well be awake.

A minute later:

>   
>  _"Go with the children. Save yourself. Before it's too late. – Reepicheep"_  
> 

Tom grins at the screen. He manages to contain himself, but just barely; he actually bounces on the balls of his feet a little. His mind flashes on clear blue sky and he wants to jump. His stomach is in his throat.

And it finally hits him. He finally understands why he associates that dream with Simon.

 _Oh,_ he thinks. 

He flirts with death, cheats it. That's what he loves. That's what makes him feel alive. Flirting with Simon is no different. Hitting on him at that hockey game in front of the world was no different. Taking him to bed that night was no different. And this moment is no different. Standing in a friend's backyard, people milling about at his back, anyone having the opportunity to sneak up and read what's on his phone and he wouldn't know until it was too late.

There's nothing incriminating to read. Yet. Flirting with disaster means putting oneself in harm's way on purpose.

He replies:

>   
>  _"Shouldn't you be asleep, gorgeous?"_  
> 

Just typing that feels good. Good and sexy and dangerous. He calls Simon "gorgeous" because he knows it makes Simon blush.

Simon replies:

>   
>  _"Was. Woke up, though. Jet lag. Also, left my phone on in case of emergencies. I'd say 'death by Snooki' qualifies."_  
> 

He replies again:

>   
>  _"Maureen just woke up and asked 'Are you texting him again?' She knows. Abort the mission! Repeat: ABORT THE MISSION!"_  
> 

He replies once more:

>   
>  _"BTW… wish I was there too....."_  
> 

That last line of dots seems a thousand miles long. It feels like a life line connecting Tom to Simon.

Tom knows he shouldn't reply. Things are spiraling into romantic territory, at least for him. But he can't stop himself. He's stepping toward the edge.

>   
>  _"Go back to sleep. I'll survive. Much better now in fact. XOXO"_  
> 

A few minutes pass, during which time Tom's sure he's gone too far with the hugs and kisses. What's he thinking, texting Simon like some lovesick teenage girl?

Then Simon replies:

>   
>  _"Goodnight, Tom. XOXO"_  
> 

Tom puts his phone away. There's nothing left to do now except take the final step. He doesn't even bother telling himself that he won't, that it's foolish. No one can pull him back from the edge now.

He looks out at the playing children amongst the glittering lights. The wind picks up and makes his bangs flutter in his eyes. His stomach is in his throat and, god help him, he's falling.

He heads back into the house wearing a secret smile he can't wipe off his face.

That night when he dreams, he's finally able to jump.

* * *

The four dozen red roses may indeed have been pushing it.

Tom doesn't fret about it. By the time both he and Simon are back on set, Simon has found the flowers in his trailer and is back to being awkward and keeping his distance. He can barely look Tom in the eye and he blushes something terrible when Tom looks at him.

Tom is unconcerned.

This is what it's like when you're swinging from a rope out of a window of the tallest building in the world. At first it feels all wrong, you wonder what the hell you're doing, your body screams at you to turn back.

And then you're flying and it's beautiful.

This, and this alone, is how Tom knows that he's on the right track. Because every time he catches Simon's eye, no matter how badly it looks like Simon wants to run away, Tom feels the tug of vertigo. It only gets worse as the day progresses until finally Tom doesn't have to be anywhere near Simon to feel it. It's as if some part of him knows that the end is drawing near, when the two of them will talk and Simon will either jump with him or back away from the edge forever.

Finally, at the end of the day, Simon turns up at Tom's trailer, his hoodie zipped up all the way, his cap pulled down low, one hand shoved into his jeans pocket, the other holding a single rose from the bouquet. He holds up the rose and bluntly asks, "What's all this, then?"

Tom winces. "Too much, huh?"

Simon shrugs. "Depends. Any roses left for the rest of the world?"

Tom smiles. Simon's humor, even if it serves as his armor, is reassuring. Tom steps aside without a word and Simon comes up the steps and into the trailer. Tom glances around to see if anyone's been watching, then shuts his door.

Simon nudges his glasses further up on his nose and says, "First, I'd like to say thank you, because they are lovely, really. Second… my god, what've you done?"

Tom's in the grips of his own nerves now. He's got sweaty palms and a fluttery belly. He is far from fearless, but for men like him, a gut-wrenching drop can feel like home. He's been waiting for this all day. "You shouldn't read too much into it," he says quietly, casually. "It's just flowers."

Simon raises his pale eyebrows. "Oh, no, no, no, you don't get to play that card again, mate, this isn't like the lasagna, not even close. This is _four dozen red roses_ , Tom. Exactly how little am I supposed to read into that? Because let me tell you, it's reading exactly like a romance novel. Like about _eight hundred_ romance novels all at once."

Tom scratches at the back of his neck. "Yeah, I thought it might be a bit much. I'm not trying to rush anything with you. I just needed to tell you. If nothing comes of this, that's okay. I can deal with that. I just needed you to know. I'm not the kinda guy who can keep things inside, not when it matters."

Simon reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small, white card. The card that had been nestled in the bouquet of roses. He reads aloud: "Just wanted to tell you, dot, dot, dot, that your friendship is enough, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot." He looks up again, incredulous. "That's sweet. It is, but Tom, those roses do not say that my friendship is enough. They say the exact opposite. Maybe this _is_ normal for you, maybe it's because you are who you are and everything in your life is a little extraordinary, but I can tell you with utmost certainty that what those roses say, very clearly, is 'I'd like to get up on ya'."

Tom fidgets, winces again. "Yeeeah. Yeah, they kinda do."

Simon sighs as he slips the card back into his pocket and examines the rose. "No one's ever pursued me like this. I don't know how to respond. My instinct is to flee to be perfectly honest. But I don't want to do that to you." Then, under his breath he adds, "Besides, not like you don't know where I work."

"That card isn't lying," Tom says. "Yes, I needed you to know how I felt, that our night together wasn't just me blowing off steam. But the fact is, if it's just friendship you have to offer me, I can accept that." He steps closer, he can't help it. Simon looks a bit like he might bolt, but he stays put, doesn't even drop his gaze from Tom's. "You've been so good to me," Tom murmurs. His voice has dropped. He's trying really hard to keep this meeting light and friendly, but his tone is now saying otherwise and he can't stop it.

Simon seems to sigh without exhaling. His entire body sort of wilts as he gazes into Tom's eyes and for a moment he looks almost vulnerable. Then he straightens up and says, "Yeah, about hockey night… think I might be preggers. Thought you should know."

Tom grins. "Oh. Are you keeping it?"

Simon shrugs. "Do you want me to?"

Tom shakes his head, still smiling. "Your humor is a way of keeping me at arm's length. I know that. But I'm not going anywhere."

Simon gulps, all his lighthearted pretense dropping away again. "We shouldn't, you know," he says, his voice low and serious.

"I know. But I can't live like that. When there's a chance, even a sliver of a chance, that something amazing might happen, I can't let it go. I have to try, I have to do everything I possibly can until I'm told that it's impossible. And then I try harder."

Simon smiles. "Always a hundred and ten percent."

"Nothing left to chance."

"Well, what if I tell you to stop?"

"Then I'll stop. But you haven't yet, not really. And I don't think you want me to."

"Tom," Simon says with maddening sensibleness, "if it's a relationship you're after, then you're just not thinking clearly. It's impractical. How are we gonna pull that off? You're _Tom Bloody Cruise_. You can't hide anything from anyone."

"No?" Tom asks with an arched eyebrow. "No one knows me, Simon. I mean, my close friends and family know me. You know me. But the public? They're far too focused on the persona, the rumors, the lies. They see what they want, not what's there." He steps even closer and takes Simon's free hand. "You know me. You _see_ me. Although, I think sometimes my smile freaks you out."

Simon smiles with embarrassment. "Yeah, well, that's Tom Cruise's smile, that is. You try facing that and keeping your cool."

"Also, my hands," Tom says with a frown. "What's up with that?"

"Minority Report."

"What?"

"When you're doing the thing with the computer screen." Simon takes his hand back and demonstrates, still holding the rose between thumb and forefinger. He's very dramatic about it, even making swooshing noises as his hands move, but he soon gives up and, to Tom's relief and delight, gives Tom his hand again. "Well, I look like an idiot, but with you it's pure grace."

"Wait. I do that in real life?"

Simon laughs. "Sometimes, yeah. You do it without even thinking. It's lovely."

Tom smiles softly. "You see? Someone else might think I was being pretentious. But you know better."

Simon glances down shyly.

"Look, my daughter adores you. No, the lasagna wasn't her idea, but when I suggested it, you should've seen her face. She lit up like Christmas. It's you I stay late to run lines with, it's you I workout with." He abandons Simon's hand to pull him in close by his waist instead. Simon looks like he wants to protest, but he doesn't. Tom's voice drops as he adds, "It's you my daughter and I have been having dinner with. It's you I've sent half the world's supply of roses to. Simon, we're practically _already_ dating. And nobody sees it."

With a sigh, Simon pulls off his cap, tosses it onto the nearby sofa. He then rests his forehead against Tom's. "That'll change," he murmurs, "if we get too comfortable."

"So, we won't get comfortable. I don't like comfortable. You know what I feel when I look into your eyes? Vertigo. Feels like I'm standing at the top of the world's tallest building, about to jump."

"Is… is that good?"

Tom grins. "For me it is. It's exactly what I want."

"You're a strange man."

"I've been called worse. Come home with me tonight, Simon."

"No."

"We'll be at this location a while. I've rented a house out here. We'll have privacy."

"Yeah, until the paps waiting outside don't see me leave until the wee hours of the morning." Simon pulls back to look at him. "I'm not worried about myself. I'm worried for you. You can't be gay. You're simply not allowed, far as the public's concerned. It's not part of your business plan."

Tom smirks. "Who says I'm gay?"

Simon cants his head, gives Tom a withering look.

"You don't exist in this business for most of your life without picking up a few tricks. I know how to hide things. Just come home with me. Follow me in your car, at a safe distance. We'll be fine. I promise. Just come."

Simon drops his gaze. "Dammit, Tom."

Tom reaches up, takes hold of Simon's jaw, makes him look up again. His other arm is snaked securely around Simon's waist, holding firmly. "I don't invite just anyone into my home, into my bed, with my daughter just down the hall," Tom says. His voice is low, but impassioned, his gaze steady and intense. Simon can't look away, even when Tom's hand drops from his jaw. "How many people do you think get that invitation? I don't trust easily, Simon, and when I do, I don't let go just because someone tells me it's impractical."

Something in Tom's words, perhaps in his tone, has gotten to Simon. When Tom finishes speaking, Simon doesn't break eye contact, and something in his gaze shifts subtly from uncertain and worried to vulnerable and needy. The next thing Tom knows, Simon is cupping his face and kissing him hard with a little whimper.

The rose has dropped from Simon's hand, and they fall together.

Down onto the sofa. Tom settles on top, nestles between Simon's legs. Simon pushes up against him as they kiss, desperate for friction, which Tom is happy to provide as weeks of pent-up need comes to a head in both of them. Their rubbing is desperate and erratic, the kiss rough and wet. Simon actually grips Tom's lower lip between his teeth for a moment with just the right amount of bite, just enough pain to make Tom's cock throb. Then he lets the lip go, gives it a gentle suck instead, as though soothing it. Tom's tongue glides across Simon's upper lip and the kiss turns soft as they grind together, their bodies finally falling in step, meeting in the middle and creating a rhythm together. Tom slips a hand up underneath Simon's sweatshirt, underneath his t-shirt to touch his bare skin. His other hand is beneath Simon's neck, cradling his head.

"We have to be careful," Simon whispers when the kiss breaks and Tom goes for his neck instead. He can't get the words out without moaning.

"I know," Tom whispers back, his words almost lost in his own hot breaths and against Simon's skin.

"Someone could turn up any minute. We didn't lock that door."

"I _know_ , Simon."

"If you make me come in my jeans, I will murder you."

Tom grins against Simon's throat, the idea of making Simon lose control more than a little intriguing to him.

Ignoring his own advice, Simon thrusts up against Tom a few times, particularly hard, clearly trying to rub himself off, groaning hard and clawing Tom's back. He soon comes to his senses, however, and stops, but Tom can feel the restrained energy buzzing inside him like electricity. It affects Tom too, makes him want to grind against Simon until they both come hard in their pants.

Instead, Tom opts to break away and slip down Simon's body to get his jeans open. Simon pushes up onto his elbows, and he's so cute with his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dazed and worried at the same time. Tom meets and holds his gaze as he pulls Simon's hard cock out, savors the heat of it in his hand, gives it a couple of strokes and then kisses the head. Simon emits a soft groan through clenched teeth, and he straightens his glasses, obviously not wanting to lose any of this moment to nearsightedness.

Tom looks directly into Simon's eyes as he kisses his cock for him. His "Ethan" hair falls sexily over one eye as he lovingly sucks on the head and makes Simon's eyes lose focus for a moment. When he can see straight again, Simon reaches out to gently brush Tom's hair from his face, making a few soft swipes with his fingers. The touch of his hand on Tom's face is so welcome that Tom actually moans and gives in to the urge to take Simon all the way in, filling his mouth with hard heat. He lets his eyes close as he sucks, and he hears Simon's pleasure noises issuing from above.

And then comes the knock on the door.

Tom is feeling reckless. He doesn't stop sucking, doesn't even pause, doesn't even flinch.

"Tom, stop," Simon breathes. Tom ignores him. Simon tries to nudge his head away, but his effort is rather half-assed and he ends up stroking Tom's hair again instead. "We can't do this," Simon protests breathlessly.

Tom finally relents, lets Simon's cock pop out of his mouth, meets Simon's eyes and stares him down with so much heat in his gaze that Simon is pulled to him by the invisible string of dots that connects them. His wet dick bobs at the opening of his jeans as he sits up and moves toward Tom, and they're kissing again, Simon's hand clutching the back of Tom's neck.

"I have to hide," Simon whispers. The visitor knocks again. "Well, say something to them."

"Just a second!" Tom calls without turning away from Simon. Then he whispers, "What do you mean, hide? You can't hide. Whoever it is might end up staying a while. You'll be trapped."

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure I look like I've been makin' out with some hot guy," Simon retorts as he tucks his cock away and zips up. "I'll pop into the loo, straighten myself up and come back out in a bit. If they're still here, so be it. Not a crime, visiting you, using your bathroom, is it?"

Tom looks into his eyes, that same recklessness overtaking him once more. "I say we lock that door and fuck right here on the floor, right now."

Simon looks slightly taken aback, but he also looks like he might actually be considering it. He stares at Tom, into Tom's eyes, longingly at his lips, conflicted, horny. Finally he lets sense have its way, but not before uttering an affectionate, "Oh, fuck you," and pressing a hard, toothy kiss to Tom's mouth. He is then up and off the sofa as though launched from a cannon. He dashes off to the restroom, shuts and locks the door.

Tom straightens himself up as best he can. He is rock hard and the evidence of that is snaking down his inner thigh. He grabs a jacket, slings it over his arm and lets it hang before his crotch as he answers the door.

It's Jeremy.

"Hey, Brad's looking for you," Jeremy says, jerking a thumb back toward the set. "Wants to know if you wanna have a look at the rushes before you take off."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," Tom says, trying to hide how winded he sounds. He can run an eight-minute mile and barely break a sweat, but a make-out session with the man he desperately wants leaves him breathless. "I'll be there in a minute."

Jeremy cocks his head. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Just tired. You know how it is."

Jeremy smiles. "That's what you get for being crazy and doing all your own stunts."

Tom grins at that, then pauses, hearing the water turn on in the bathroom. Jeremy hears it too and cranes his neck to peer inside. "Shit, I'm interrupting." Then his eyes drop to something on the floor behind Tom. Tom twists around to see.

The rose.

Tom is almost afraid to look at Jeremy again, but he does. Jeremy is looking at the jacket Tom is holding, then up at Tom's face, which is surely flushed. Then he looks toward the opposite end of the trailer again, toward the restroom, and says, "I'm definitely interrupting." His tone has changed in a way that makes Tom nervous.

"It's nothing," Tom assures him, keeping his cool. "It's just Simon. I got him a bunch of flowers. It was just a stupid joke."

"Oh."

"It's a thing. You had to be there."

"Right."

The bathroom door opens and Simon steps out looking none the worse for wear. He comes toward Tom and Jeremy with a clearly forced smile, grabs his cap from the sofa and slaps it on his head.

 _Never mind why he wasn't wearing it in the first place, Jeremy,_ Tom thinks.

Simon stops at the door next to Tom, looks at Jeremy, who looks at him. They smile awkwardly, then Simon looks to Tom and says, "I'm gonna go."

"Yeah," Tom says, nodding a little too eagerly. "I'm gonna head over and take a look at the rushes before I leave. So… yeah."

"Right. So, you won't be leaving just yet, then."

"Nope, not yet."

"All right, then."

"Plans later?" Tom asks rather boldly, looking right into Simon's eyes.

Simon hesitates, looking every bit the deer in headlights. He finally replies, "Haven't decided yet."

Tom nods. "Well, let me know. If you're busy, well… I guess that's it, then."

Simon's shoulders sag a bit. The deer-in-headlights look is replaced by a slight frown. Tom supposes he's just issued an ultimatum, and Simon isn't one to respond well to such things.

Simon nods, looks away, toward Jeremy, nods at him too, then slips by both of them and leaves. Jeremy steps out of Simon's way to let him down the little steps. Then Jeremy turns his eyes back up to Tom who quickly snaps his gaze away from Simon's retreating backside, the cute way he hunches his shoulders as he sticks his hands in his pockets and looks shiftily around as he heads back toward the set.

"You know, Tom," Jeremy says as he shifts his weight and puts his hands in his Brandt-pants pockets. Tom still doesn't care for the tone in his voice. It sounds like a parent or teacher who's about to call you on your bullshit in a way that is meant to spare you embarrassment and yet ends up embarrassing you more than anything else.

"Jeremy –" he interrupts, but Jeremy won't let him continue.

"Tom, all of us here who work with you, who work with anyone who's as big a deal as you, you know, we all understand… discretion."

Tom just closes his eyes. "Jeremy –"

"Now, I'm not saying you two should go around holding hands –"

"My god," Tom sighs, bringing his hand up to cover his eyes.

"– but it doesn't need to be this tense and weird. Not around certain people. Not around me."

Tom parts his fingers to let one eye look out at Jeremy, but says nothing.

"When you leave an entire flower shop in a guy's trailer, and nobody died? You gotta figure somebody's gettin' some."

Tom drops his hand from his face. "How'd you know how many flowers I got him?"

"I saw your assistant delivering them this morning. It's not her fault. She was careful. Poor thing never saw me. I was lurking."

"What the hell for?"

Jeremy shrugs. "I saw a butt-load of flowers. I followed."

Tom rolls his eyes, then asks, "How do you know nobody's died?"

Jeremy gives him a knowing look. "Come on. Look, you all were BFFs, Simon wouldn't shut up about you half the time, then you went to that hockey game together and when you came in to work on Monday you were both acting weird as hell and Simon didn't say a word about you since. Doesn't take a genius to connect those dots. 'Specially considering the pictures that came outta that game. Hey, I bought it too. I figured you were just whispering in the guy's ear. 'Til today. 'Til this morning with the flowers. And Simon's barely spoken to you all day on set, aside from the scenes you two did together."

"Connecting the dots, huh?"

"Connecting the dots."

Tom threw up his hands, giving in. "Okay, so? Now what?"

"Nothing. I just didn't want you two to be weird around me. I don't care, Tom. You know I'm not gonna tell anybody."

Tom relaxes a bit, nods. "Thanks, Jeremy. You're a good guy."

"No problem. Sooo…" Jeremy glances around to make sure they're alone, then grins up at Tom and quietly says, "You two're doing it, huh?"

Tom smiles, shakes his head, then begins to shut the door. "Goodbye, Jeremy," he says affectionately just before the door closes. The truth is he could have invited Jeremy in and gushed about everything he's feeling, but it's bad enough that Jeremy knows at all. Better to keep his mouth shut, save his enthusiasm for tonight.

* * *

Simon doesn't show.

At first, Tom rationalizes it by telling himself that Simon couldn't check his phone right away when Tom texted to tell him he was leaving. Maybe if Tom had waited just ten minutes longer, he would have gotten a reply or seen Simon finally approaching his car in the lot. But Tom had waited in his own car, keeping watch, for nearly forty-five minutes (he'd finally left, as he'd begun to feel a bit like a stalker and he'd wanted to get home in time to at least read his daughter a story and tuck her in), and now that he's been at home for an hour and a half, he still hasn't heard from Simon.

He lay on his back on his sofa in his living room by soft lamplight. It's past his bedtime, but his mind won't shut down and let him sleep. He thinks having a glass of wine might help, but he knows he'll feel it in the morning and he can't afford to be sluggish on set. It simply isn't an option. Ever. He really should get to sleep.

He doesn't like awkwardness between cast mates on set, either, but that's exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, again, with Simon. Tom should have kept his mouth shut. What had he been thinking, issuing an ultimatum? He hadn't actually meant it that way. At the time, he'd felt he was letting Simon know that if he didn't show up, it was okay, they could just be friends. But as soon as the words were out, Tom had realized how they'd come off. Well, he can't take it back now, not until Simon decides to speak to him. Tom isn't about to try to get in touch first. Letting it be known how badly he wants something is one thing. Appearing desperate and needy and just plain controlling is something else entirely. It isn't his style. And he knows Simon well enough to know that that will send him running for the hills.

It feels like mere seconds pass from the moment of Tom's last thought to the moment when the buzzer sounds. His eyes fly open and he sits up, disoriented for a moment. He checks the time. Somehow it is twenty-five minutes later than it was the last time he'd checked. He doesn't remember falling asleep.

The large window behind his sofa flickers with light, and a moment later thunder rumbles outside. Tom finally notices the soft pitter-patter of rain on the glass.

He thinks it's probably Simon buzzing at the gate. He almost doesn't want to get his hopes up, but who else would it be at this time of night? He goes to the intercom, presses a button. "Who's there?" he asks.

 _"It's me."_ It's Simon. Tom can hear the rain on the intercom. It's gotten so bad now, Simon has to yell to be heard.

Tom decides not to celebrate just yet as he presses the button to open the gate. He gets the front door open before Simon's even rung the bell or approached the house. He watches Simon park, then exit his car and run through the now torrential downpour, hunched and huddled inside his hoodie. Tom steps aside to let him in immediately and shuts the door on the rain. Simon is soaked when he gets inside.

"I'm sorry," Simon says as he stands in the front foyer, dripping on the tile, his glasses covered in raindrops despite the brim of the cap he wears beneath his hood. "I've got excuses, though. Been working on them for a while now. Let's see, um, I got lost? I drove into a temporal loop? I've been here all along?"

"It's fine, Simon. I don't need explanations or apologies."

"I wanted to come," Simon assures him, looking guilty. "I mean, I did come, I'm here, obviously, but what I mean is I wanted to come earlier, I just… freaked out a bit."

"I know. It's fine. I've been pushing too hard. _I'm_ sorry. Here, get out of that." Tom reaches out, pushes Simon's sopping wet hood down off his head. Simon unzips and takes the hoodie off. Tom instantly takes it from him. "I'll throw this in the dryer and get you something dry to put on," he says. He's already walking away as he calls back, "Bathroom's the first door on the right, just over there." He points. "Head on inside, I'll bring you some clothes and throw your wet ones in with the sweatshirt."

"I broke up with Maureen," Simon says.

Tom stops and looks back. Simon hasn't moved from the puddle he's made before the door. He's taken his glasses off and is holding them. Tom just stares, unsure what to say.

"After you texted me from that dinner party," Simon explains, looking sheepish, "I knew I had to let her go. She took it well, I think. There were some tears. She punched me on the arm, but other than that –"

"Wait, wait, wait," Tom interrupts, now moving back toward Simon. "You broke up with her while you were still at home?"

Simon nods.

"You didn't say anything today."

"I meant to. I think. Tom, the fact is I didn't go to your trailer today to make out with you. I went there to tell you, pointblank, that we really, really shouldn't. Got a bit sidetracked when you got all up in my face with your rugged handsomeness. Not fair, by the way."

"So, you broke up with her, but you didn't intend for things between us to progress?"

"I didn't break up with her for you. I broke up with her because it was the right thing to do. I don't love her. You texted me that night while I was in bed with her, and my heart skipped and my stomach back-flipped and my pancreas did a triple Salchow, and that's when I knew; if the person I'm with isn't doing that for me, then what the hell am I doing with her?"

Tom's gaze fills with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Simon."

"No, it's all right," Simon says with a wave of his hand. He then looks down and shuffles his feet as he sticks his glasses in his back pocket, his hands in his front pockets. "It had to be done. I had to let her go."

Tom wants to hug him, but isn't sure he should. He reaches out tentatively, touches Simon's forearm. Simon looks up, gives Tom a sad smile and then pulls a hand out and actually gives it to Tom, lets him hold it the way he did in the trailer earlier. Now Tom's heart is skipping, but he stays quiet, still, afraid of scaring Simon off.

Simon's smile becomes less sad and more shy. He looks down at their clasped hands, swings them a bit as though testing something. Tom watches him, not realizing that he's smiling himself.

"How's that feel?" Tom asks.

Simon nods. "Good, I think. Nice."

"Natural? Like maybe it's exactly how things should be?"

Simon laughs and looks at him. "You've already bought the ring, haven't you?"

"Maybe. You'll find out when you cut into your pancakes in the morning. Triple Salchow, huh?"

"Stuck the landing like a champ."

Feeling a bit bolder now, Tom moves closer, has to. He keeps hold of Simon's hand and lays his other hand on the small of Simon's back to pull him closer, the wet hoodie draped over his forearm. Simon comes to him without resistance. He reaches up and turns his cap slightly to the side to get the brim out of the way. A good sign. It means he wants to be there, in Tom's arms. He then rests his free hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Would you like to stay?" Tom whispers, brushing his lips against Simon's cheek. "Nothing has to happen. You know, if you're still raw from the break-up. You can stay in the guest room if you prefer."

Simon says nothing, merely looks at Tom's face as though examining, maybe weighing his options. Then he catches Tom's lips with his own, gently kisses him.

This is nice. Tom could stay here, just like this, all night if they didn't have work in the morning. They're in the perfect position to dance with each other, and a song starts playing in Tom's head. He's not even sure of all the lyrics, but it's pretty and he knows exactly which song it is. He breaks the kiss.

"Wait here," he says as he pulls away and heads for the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"You'll see. Take off whatever's wet. I'll bring you something to put on."

He knows Simon is utterly confused and probably more than a little iffy about undressing in the front foyer of someone else's house, but when Tom returns, Simon is standing awkwardly at the door, just left of his puddle, holding his jeans, socks and hat in front of his lower half. He's kept his t-shirt on since the hoodie took the brunt of the rain. His glasses are mostly dry now and he's put them back on.

"I feel ridiculous," he says dryly.

Tom merely smiles. He has dropped the hoodie off at the clothes dryer and is carrying a set of pajamas and a laptop. He gestures for Simon to follow and they go into the living room where Tom sets the computer down on the coffee table, gives Simon the dry clothes and dashes off again to reunite the hoodie with the rest of Simon's wet clothes. When he returns, Simon has donned the comfy, cotton pajama pants.

"Thanks," Simon says as Tom rushes back to the laptop, crouches down and begins fiddling with it. "Now what are you do – what the hell is that?"

Tom's desktop has appeared and there's the picture of "baby Simon" he'd procured from the dinner party. He grins up at Simon who is staring at the picture in horror.

"Where did you get that thing?" Simon demands. "Why is it here? Dear god, it's looking at me."

"It's you from the past," Tom explains as he brings up his media player. "You should give him a message from the future, Simon, tell him that when one of his future coworkers takes an interest in him, he shouldn't scoff just because the guy's lacking a little in the height department."

Simon laughs. "That's not why I scoffed. Be a bloody hypocrite if I did. Also, I didn't scoff."

"You scoffed a little."

Tom finally presses "play" and a haunting piano intro swells to fill the softly-lit space. Tom stands and turns to face Simon, who is watching him with a soft smile.

"I didn't even know you liked them," Simon says.

"I didn't. Before you." Tom holds out his hand and beckons Simon to come to him. Simon chuckles, looking slightly incredulous, but he gives Tom his hand and is pulled back into Tom's arms where he settles as easily as before, though this time he tosses his head back and laughs at the ceiling.

"Now, I really feel ridiculous," he says when he stops laughing.

"Shh. Just enjoy it," Tom murmurs. He presses his hand flat to Simon's lower back, holding him securely, and slowly begins to move with him, just slightly from side to side, not exactly in time with the music. The music is more a companion than a guide. Simon looks at him and some of the amusement seeps out of his expression, leaving a softly dreamy, somewhat questioning gaze. Then, just as thunder rumbles outside, the piano takes a turn, going to the melancholic minor chords, and Simon closes his eyes, lets out a little hum of appreciation and begins nuzzling at Tom's cheek.

They stay that way for the entire three-minute intro. Tom nuzzles back, watches Simon when Simon's eyes are closed, counts the faint freckles on Simon's face, then finally closes his eyes too and just breathes in Simon's scent and the faint smell of rain that still lingers on him. Then the lyrics begin, just as beautifully haunting as the piano. By now they are fully engrossed in each other, in this private world of theirs. They could be in one of Tom's dreams, just the two of them in a sea of blue and music, with the press of each other's bodies. They are both breathing a little harder now as they nip and kiss at each other's skin, sharing breath when their mouths brush. Simon is hardening. Tom can feel it nudging almost impatiently at him. The feeling of Simon's arousal makes Tom very aware of his own. His kisses become more aggressive. He sucks at Simon's neck, almost not caring if he leaves a mark. He finds Simon's mouth and latches on as Simon drops Tom's hand and wraps both arms around him.

The kiss breaks and they are both panting. They look at each other and Simon simply nods. Tom nods back as if to ask, "Are you sure?" Simon's answer is another nod, desperate hands feeling up underneath Tom's shirt and a steady, hot gaze that, alone, could have said it all. Neither man needs say a word. Tom pulls away briefly to shut the laptop, knowing it will go into hibernation with the lid closed. Then he straightens up, takes Simon's hand and leads him upstairs.

* * *

In his dreams, Tom is falling.

Or flying. He isn't sure which. He hasn't jumped off of anything, and as with all dreams, there is no beginning. He simply becomes aware of where he is and what he's doing. It's a controlled fall, at least, and he isn't scared. Excited, full of adrenaline, but not scared. He's exactly where he should be.

He wakes five minutes before his alarm is to go off and finds himself staring at Simon, who is curled up next to him, still asleep. A little rush of something similar to his dream rush shoots through him. He reaches out, underneath the covers, and touches Simon's bare skin. The little rush intensifies. He shimmies close and takes Simon in his arms, making Simon stir, moan and slowly awaken.

"What time is it?" Simon whispers.

"Almost time to get up."

"Shit." Simon snuggles into Tom's embrace, sounding like there's nowhere else he'd rather be. Which is saying something, because Simon loves his job as much as Tom does. Tom smiles to himself, squeezing Simon tighter. "What will you tell her?" Simon asks.

"Hm?"

"Your daughter. What will you tell her when I'm sat there next to her at the table eating a bowl of her Cheerios and wearing Daddy's pajamas?"

"Daddy had a sleepover. And you forgot your pajamas. She won't be awake anyway. Too early."

The alarm sounds and both men groan. Tom reaches back to shut it off, then curls around Simon again. They have to go, and Tom wants to go, but he'd be just as happy staying put. This is strange for him. He almost craves that fidgety, itchy, skin-too-tight feeling that makes him need to get up and go, but it doesn't come. What was missing from his home life is here now, in his arms.

Simon stretches against Tom and they both shift a little, their legs entwining. Tom gazes out the window as they settle down again, watches light surfacing behind the trees in his backyard. He is deliberately keeping himself from twisting around to check the time on the clock, but it seems the sun is hurrying him along too. He sighs and kisses Simon's forehead.

"I've been meaning to ask you…" Simon says.

"What?"

"Did you and the children ever find Narnia?"

Tom grins. "Nah. Well, maybe they did. I didn't. I found something better that night."

Simon knows Tom is referring to him, and the next thing he asks is, "You had no intention of letting go, did you?"

"Didn't fool you, huh?"

"You were convincing for a while there, but no."

"You let go, you lose."

"That's the first thing they teach you in stuntman school, isn't it?"

Tom laughs. "Pretty much. I didn't push too hard, did I?"

"Just hard enough. It's like you knew."

"I didn't. I thought maybe I'd push you away completely. But I had to try. Something made me keep trying."

"What was it?"

Tom doesn't want to tell him. It sounds ridiculous. He can't bring himself to admit that the thing that brought it all together for him were the dots in one of Simon's texts the night of the dinner party. The life line. He can't tell Simon that it was those dots that made Tom toss out the same life line in his message on the card that came with the flowers, with the hope that Simon would grab on too.

Instead, he simply says, "You were giving me subconscious signals. I just connected the dots. Simple."

"Simple," Simon echoes. "Well, I will voice the sentiments of every production crew you've ever worked with:" He looks up at Tom, smiles softly and whispers, "I'm glad you didn't let go."

Tom smiles too and adds, "Dot, dot, dot, dot, dot."

END

**Author's Note:**

> A whole mess o' crap went into this fic, so I thought I'd stick it all at the end here, in case you were interested.
> 
> First, the "dot, dot, dot" thing comes from _The Office_ , season 8, episode 16, entitled _After Hours_ :
>
>>   
> _"Three dots means 'to be continued', four dots is a typo, but five dots means, 'Whoa. Do not make me say what I wanna say, baby, but if I did, it would blow your mind – dot, dot, dot, dot dot.'"_ \- Kelly Kapoor explaining the many nuances of dots in text messages
> 
> I've also drawn from a few articles for this fic and its predecessor. If you were paying attention to M:IGP's press, you may have noticed the abundance of praise Simon has for Tom. Many of Tom's costars have gushed about him, and Simon is king of the bromance, so the praise isn't surprising, but I can't get these two out of my head. I just find them so adorable together. Keep in mind, the evidence presented here is not meant to prove anything beyond a cute bromance. It is also attribution for the parts of the fic that happened in real life.
> 
>   * [The Hockey Date](http://www.justjared.com/2011/02/23/tom-cruise-canucks-hockey-game-with-simon-pegg/) – In which, yes, there actually is a hockey date in Vancouver, Canada. To quote Simon from a completely different article: _"Sometimes we're hanging out and it's just me and Tom at a hockey game. But sometimes he puts on his sunglasses and smiles and it's like, 'Oh my god, it's you'."_ I have to say, I absolutely love those pics of them together. They'd make the cutest couple. 
>   * [Suri Cruise Makes Simon a Lasagna](http://www.nowmagazine.co.uk/celebrity-news/533039/simon-pegg-suri-cruise-cooked-me-a-lasagne/1) – In which adorable child is adorable. I don't even like kids, but the thought of this just makes me want to weep from the cuteness. I wouldn't have included her in the fic at all if not for this. 
>   * [Tom Buys Simon a Snowboard For His 41st Birthday](http://www.mirror.co.uk/3am/celebrity-news/mission-impossible-ghost-protocol-premiere-281565) – In which Simon calls Tom "irresistable". Skip down to Simon's picture, his stuff is below it. 
>   * [Go-carting & Stuff](http://www.contactmusic.com/news/simon-pegg-loved-socialising-with-cruise_1278897) – In which Tom and Simon have "such fun" together. And we learn that they sometimes go running together on set. 
>   * [Tom and Simon Share Parenting Tips](http://www.ctv.ca/CTVNews/Entertainment/20111220/tom-cruise-simon-pegg-share-parenting-tips-111220/) – In which Tom consoles Simon when he gets homesick and Simon gushes about Tom's good looks and hot bod. Oh, and yes, they apparently talked about being parents with each other. I mean, not _with_ each other. They talked with each other _about_ being ... forget it. 
>   * [Simon's Rise From "Geek to Cool"](http://www.thenational.ae/arts-culture/film/actor-simon-pegg-charts-the-path-from-geek-to-cool?pageCount=0) – In which Simon and Tom trade latenight e-mails, or "love letters" as Simon calls them. And Simon's wife totally calls him on it.
> 

> 
> Not to mention the many video interviews in which Simon compliments Tom. ["Put your shirt back on, for god's sake, I can't concentrate!"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=M4pSzND0z50#t=147s) is one of my faves.
> 
> The Death Cab song is [Unobstructed Views](http://youtu.be/fsF3EUVvwPs) from the album _Codes and Keys_.
> 
> And finally, the photo of "baby Simon" that I'm referring to is the pouty one found [here](http://fuckyeahsimonpegg.tumblr.com/post/17641680701#notes) at [FuckYeahSimonPegg](http://fuckyeahsimonpegg.tumblr.com/). I'm actually not sure when those photos were taken, I was just guessing about the time frame.
> 
> And that's it. Thanks for reading.


End file.
